Affections Like Ivy
by tider58
Summary: Several weeks after the Chosen battle in Sunnydale, Dawn learns that Spike is alive at Wolfram and Hart, so she leaves Rome to fly to L.A. SD friendship, no Spawn.
1. Chapter 1

The crush of people at baggage claim was suffocating, the jostling and the "excuse me"s that really meant "get the hell out of my way, jackass" and the loud, echoing voices all melding and weaving and bleeding into a headache-inducing cacophony and _she had to get out of here._ There. She spotted her bag—okay, _Buffy's_ bag, but what's one more strike against her at this point—and ducked down between two ex-fellow passengers to grab it from the conveyor belt before it could slip past her.

Escaping the luggage mob, she made her way over to a bench next to a window wall and sat down to fumble through her carryon for her cell phone. She felt as though she hadn't breathed since leaving Rome, since the rending shock of revelation had turned her into a thief and a liar and a runaway-slash-fugitive in the instant it took for the words _(Spike is alive)_ to penetrate her just-fading grief. And suddenly here she was, the first part of her not-really-a-plan complete, the next part looming huge and frightening over her head like a giant black question mark, and holy _crap_ she couldn't lose her nerve this late in the game; she was _here_ now. Good old California. Home, sweet home—now with less Hellmouth.

But first things first. A little damage control was in order, something along the lines of "Hey guys, I'm not dead, don't try to find me." She found her cell, flipped it open, stared numbly down at the keypad. Okay, so who to call? Buffy would kill her through the phone, Dawn had no delusions there. "27 missed calls," the words on the little screen informed her accusingly, and if that didn't confirm how screwed she was, nothing would. She couldn't bear, just now, to check her voice mail.

The "borrowed" Platinum Visa tucked away in the zippered side pocket of her bag precluded her from calling Giles, the always-dependable adult figure in their lives. She flinched guiltily when she thought of it, of the revisiting of the stealing thing, of how the action, necessary though it had been, had seemed nothing at all like the times she'd done it out of a warped sense of wronged-ness and enjoyed some cold comfort at the thought that she was punishing them—her—in some obscure way.

Willow? Okay, better, but Dawn was still somewhat leery of the witch's powers, those that Willow herself wasn't so gun-shy about anymore, and it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility that she would take it upon herself to try to _magick_ Dawn back to the fold. And that? Sounded a lot cooler than it would probably actually be. Sure, Will had recently channeled some megapowers and turned what seemed like half the female teens and 'tweens in the world into Slayers, but it wasn't so long ago that she couldn't do a simple locator spell right nine times out of ten and Dawn knew better than to get on the wrong side of Willow's rapidly re-inflating ego. Been there, done that, almost spent eternity as a ball of energy for her troubles.

Xander. He kept saying he was leaving Rome, that there was no reason for him to be there with them, that he needed to get back to the States and try to scrape together some sort of life for himself, _by_ himself, and they all sensed the fear beneath the assertion. Who was he, without Buffy? Who was he, without Willow? He'd spent so long being an extension of them, being indispensable in his own average way, that the thought of going it alone was blatantly terrifying. And they didn't want him to leave any more than he wanted to. They needed him. They needed his normality, even if that was just a farce these days.

Xander was probably Dawn's best bet. She scrolled down to his name in her phone list and clicked "send" and waited for the call to connect across an ocean that might as well have been an abyss, as far removed from it as she felt. Tapping her boot-clad foot on the tile and trying to pretend she didn't notice the tall skeevy guy standing by the bank of pay phones and picturing her topless. Xander's voice, thick with sleep and maybe too much of some beverage or other, was like a warm blanket, fuzzy slippers, a hug in audio.

Mostly taken for granted, the things he gave them.

"Xand, hi. I need you to do something for me," she said, deciding that cutting to the chase was wise. Maybe she could take care of this before he'd fully regained his senses. "Tell Buffy that I'm sorry, but I'm okay and I'll be home as soon as I take care of this … thing … and, and tell her not to be mad. Okay?"

A pause, static filling the space. "Dawn? 'zat you?"

She sighed impatiently. "Yes, it's me. Listen, I don't have very long. I've got to go. Just … will you please tell Buffy—"

"Wait, Dawn, where the hell are you? We've been—"

"I know, and I'm sorry I had to cut out like that. There's just something I've gotta do, and then I'll be back good as new and you guys can feel free to lecture me for the rest of my life. Deal?"

Even with the fuzzy connection, Dawn could hear a faint rustling as he sat up in bed. "Hang on."

"No! Xander, I don't have time to—"

"Dawnie, hold tight. She'll want to talk to you. Don't hang up."

"Xan_derrrr_." A whine—ick, she'd resolved to work on that—but forgivable, under the circumstances. "Just give her the message, please. I'll call you again when I get … where I'm going. I love you guys."

She snapped the phone shut on his protest and winced belatedly. Then she turned it off and stuffed it into the bottom of her bag. When all else fails, avoidance can work wonders for the conscience.

xXxXx

Okay, so here she was. What now? _How about going inside, for starters?_

One way to make yourself look like a big loser, Dawn thought, is to stand a few feet from a city curb as your taxi pulls away, clutching a flower-print canvas tote in your sweaty hand, gawking up at a high-rise office building as if you've never seen anything of the sort before and are waiting for all the answers to the universe to come raining down on you from its countless sun-glazed windows.

Wolfram and Hart. The words etched into the stone on the side of the building confirmed that she was in the right place, according to her pieced-together information, but _wow_. Far cry from the digs at the Hyperion, shabby but comfortable, big but somehow cozy almost—if she hadn't hated it on general rebellious principle. It had been her temporary home for dribs and drabs of time during the endless post-Glory summer, when one of them—Spike, usually—insisted on stowing Dawn away under the watchful eye of Angel as the scarred troops of a dead Slayer's ragtag army waged war against some new threat back in Sunnydale.

This was no Hyperion. Angel and company had moved on up, it seemed. She couldn't even see all the way to the top of the building, because the sun's glare made her eyes tear up and she didn't want her mascara to run because if she walked through those doors and happened to run smack into him he'd think she'd been _crying_, and that was totally out of the question. She shuddered at the thought.

Seriously, though, enough stalling. She'd come this far, she might as well suck it up and at least douse the acidic anticipation that had set her stomach on fire.

He was here. Alive. Or, well … as alive as he was before, which technically wasn't _really_ alive but still. The fact that she only knew this because she'd turned eavesdropping into an art form while living in the Revello Drive House of Secrets was beside the point, now. Giles' clipped, whispered words to whom she could only assume had been Angel was simply confirmation of what she'd sensed for almost two weeks before; some weird _knowing_ combined with some really vivid dreams that never faded when she woke up like normal dreams do, and just like that, the world went spinning on its head.

Spike was alive, and that changed _everything._

Squaring her shoulders and trying to look more capable than she felt, Dawn pulled open one of the double glass doors of the Wolfram and Hart headquarters and stepped inside.

At first she didn't even register the piercing, high-pitched whine that met her ears as an alarm. Then the electronic voice kicked in, a calm but ominous computerized woman's voice repeating "Security code one, uncategorized entity, security code one…"

_Uncategorized entity._

The men (well, they looked mostly like men but one of them had _horns_ and the other one focused on Dawn with a pair of blood-red eyes and if she could've found her voice she would've screamed for all she was worth) came from either side of what she vaguely registered as a security checkpoint like at the airport. She had time and presence of mind to take one step back toward the doors before they grabbed her. Buffy's travel bag slipped from her suddenly slack fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

Well, wasn't _this_ an interesting turn of events? Of all the surprises she'd prepared herself for because, let's face it, she was a walking poster child for Murphy's Law, being detained by two demons in suits upon entering the building where her much-anticipated reunion was meant to take place had never occurred to her. What. The. _Hell?_

Pacing the sterile-white linoleum of the tiny square room she'd been escorted to and locked inside, Dawn was mildly surprised to realize that her primary emotion at the moment was _pissed off._ Furious. Sure, there were other emotions rumbling around somewhere under the surface but right now she didn't even want to poke a stick in there for the sake of exploration. And the anger was good, because it's a pretty uncomplicated emotion in the grand scheme of them. Not like those others, which can keep you awake at night envisioning all the potentialities for a person who only _was_ one by the barest definition. Which can make you crazy.

Really though. She'd risked a lot to come here. She had quite enough to be worried about, thank you very much, without adding to the list her unshakable ability to set off alarms everywhere she went simply by _being_ and the queasy wonder of how, exactly, these guys were accustomed to handling their "uncategorized entities."

"I need to see Angel," she'd plead with the well-groomed demons as they retreated from the room without so much as a "Have a nice confinement" or a "We'll be back to suck out your brains shortly."

They exchanged what Dawn read as a dubious look, and hot frustration swelled in her chest, overriding the fear for the first time. "He knows me," she insisted. "Just tell him that Dawn Summers is here. Summers, as in Buffy. Slayer. The One Girl In All The World? Ringing any bells here? _I need to see Angel._"

The door closed with a definitive clang, and there was the sound of a deadbolt being latched, and Dawn went to it and banged a fist on its solidity for good measure.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been here now. Surely five hours, at least. Or, hey, maybe more like twenty minutes. Funny how easy it is to lose track of time when you've been locked in a storage closet while your sister's ex-boyfriend, head-honcho vampire around these parts, takes his sweet-ass time coming to your rescue. Or, more likely, the demon guys hadn't delivered her message. And, great. Cell phone was in the bag just inside the front doors where she'd dropped it, so no help there. At least if it got stolen she'd never have to listen to that long stream of scalding messages Buffy was sure to have left.

Dawn happened to glance at the far wall and began to visually calculate her chances of pulling off something so terribly Nancy Drew that it would've been funny if it weren't necessary. It would be a tight squeeze, but she was pretty sure she could do it, and wasn't it better to try and fail (get wholly and completely and irrevocably stuck) than to sit here and wait for who knew what to come back and retrieve another _uncategorized entity_ to add to the Wolfram and Hart medical science lab collection, or whatever the hell?

Spike and Buffy would break the door down. Not really a valid option for her. This, though … if she could just get out far enough to slip through another grate, stick to the shadows until she found someone normal(ish) who could direct her to where she intended to go…

She pondered for only a few seconds before scrambling down on her knees next to the grate. The screws came out easily, though she broke a nail in the process and added another choice insult to Angel's growing pile. And, ew, dark and nasty and there were probably spiders and assorted ick, but she had to get to Angel, and from Angel to Spike, so … Dawn took a deep breath and propelled her entire upper body into the hole. She had to squirm a few feet forward, reaching blindly with outstretched arms, and then the pipe opened up a bit and she was _in_, and could actually gain her knees enough to crawl. She paused, staring into nothingness ahead and then turning to look over her shoulder at the rectangle of cold clear light from her short-term prison. "Can't turn back, Niblet," she muttered, and pushed on.

Spike had better appreciate her efforts.

xXxXx

The credit card company had been surprisingly forthcoming with assistance when Giles called, more for the sake of tracking Dawn than out of any real financial concern. He had a pretty good idea of where she was heading before getting the confirmation of her plane ticket purchase (and a meal at the airport's Burger King of all places; the girl had lamented the loss of good old American fast food since their arrival in Rome). The handwritten note he'd found in his wallet, tucked into the little pocket where the card had been, should perhaps have touched a nerve but instead had touched his heart, just slightly, and not enough that he would admit it even to himself. "Giles: Don't hate me for borrowing this. I'll make it up to you. —Love, Dawn." There was a smiley face in the swoop she made off the "n" of her name.

Even in the frenzy that ensued after discovering that Dawn was missing, Giles debated telling Buffy the truth. They'd made a new start here, all of the Sunnydale soldiers, and this—development—was unsavory to him in more ways than one. She was still healing, he argued. She needed to finish the process before she would be mentally or emotionally equipped to handle the news of her erstwhile lover's (and he cringed at the word) second return from the dead. Besides, Dawn would be all right. Giles had already phoned ahead to Angel and told him to expect the younger Summers' arrival and to keep an eye on her. Like old times, one might have said.

But then Xander got the middle-of-the-night phone call from Dawn and Buffy had in the interim convinced herself that Dawn was truly in trouble, that she'd made the call when her captor had his back turned and therefore didn't have enough time to provide the specifics of her whereabouts. Never mind the stolen credit card, an increasingly irrational Buffy insisted: Dawn was taken _against her will._ Buffy would find her and kill whatever poor soul was responsible for her hapless sister's abduction.

So it was that Giles found himself delivering the news to his Slayer, awaiting the force of her anger, as a common thread among all the Summers women was a rabid distaste for being kept in the dark on subjects of any importance. And Spike, Giles knew, Buffy deemed quite significant.

Her wide-eyed silence lasted a few beats too long, and Giles was on the verge of saying something further, but she saved him this effort.

"What do you mean … alive?" she asked, her words and tone deceptively even.

He cleared his throat. "Well, erm, that's very interesting, actually; Angel says that Spike is currently noncor—"

"He's _alive._" She swallowed, and Giles found himself completely unable to read the expression on her face. It made him nervous.

"Yes, well, after a fashion. Perhaps less so than he was before, though they're working on—"

"I've got to go."

"Yes, of course. Dawn."

She looked at him steadily from across the room, and this time he caught a glimmer of something in her eyes that he _did_ recognize.

"Sure, Dawn," she agreed, the corners of her mouth twitching. "And _Spike._"


	3. Chapter 3

Getting out was going to prove a bit more involved than getting in had been. Dawn had already crawled past three potential escapes, contemplating and then rejecting each one for a different reason. The first air vent cover she came to opened on someone's office, just behind his big fancy-schmancy desk. The guy, a normal-enough looking man of about forty, was gazing intently at his computer monitor, and when he shifted slightly and afforded Dawn a glimpse of the screen, she had to stifle a gasp because whoa, the naked! Reminding herself that she was in no position to yell "Does Angel know he's paying you to be a big _pervert?_" through the grate, she moved on as silently as possible.

A little more crawling (on knees that were now protesting vehemently), and she'd come to a more promising scenario. This vent was located in the middle of an empty hallway. There was even a conveniently located potted palm she could duck behind to figure out her next step. Score. She put her hands up to begin working the grate off, and then a set of double doors across the way opened up and spilled forth what might very well have been the entire population, both human and not-so-much, of pre-apocalyptic Sunnydale. She froze as they swarmed out of the conference room and milled around chatting as if they—and the girl in the air vent—had all the time in the world. She was curious in spite of herself: demons mingling with humans, demons clutching clipboards and briefcases and talking clients and weather and lunch plans, and what exactly _was_ this place, anyway? She'd have to do some serious prying if she ever found Angel. Buffy kills demons, and Angel provides them gainful employment? When did they stop playing the same game?

Well, it didn't look like the post-convention mixer of the damned was going to break up anytime soon, so Dawn moved on again, past another occupied office (no porn though, so, better), around a bend, up a steep grade, and through what seemed a never-ending corridor of blackness.

Okay, this was a little too much like being buried alive. Dawn made a mental note to check that with Buffy, and then laughed a short, brittle laugh that sounded odd and echoey in the enclosure. This was decidedly uncool. So when the black was broken by a now-familiar little patch of light up ahead, Dawn heaved a sigh of relief and picked up her pace. She barely bothered to glance through the vent for safety's sake before prying it open, tearing another nail past the quick and barely feeling the sting as the grate clattered to the floor below. Hm. Pretty _far_ below. So she'd chosen a ceiling-height escape hatch. Not such a bad drop, she supposed, and she could hang by her arms and do it no problem, she was so tall, but there was this _other_ problem, which she saw only now that she had busted blindly in with no hope of undoing it.

_"Hey!"_

Dawn froze for just a moment, taken aback by the sight of Harmony Kendall gaping up at her. Hello, vulnerable.

"Harmony?"

"Slayer's kid sister?"

"Look, I'm just gonna move along here, and if you could pretend that this never hap—"

"What are you doing up there?"

"Nothing. I—it's nothing."

A phone buzzed, and Harmony held up a finger to pause the conversation and moved back behind the big receptionist's desk. She spoke brightly into the receiver, and Dawn shook her head in disbelief. So not only was Angel in the habit of employing run-of-the-mill demons, apparently he'd secured Sunnydale's own Airhead of the Undead as his executive assistant. This was _bizarre._ And why was Dawn staying put, anyway? Last time she'd laid eyes on Harmony, she was chained to a wall in a crypt as Harmony's slightly more capable "minions" rebelled, Harmony whined out her dissatisfaction, and Dawn waited to be rescued and bitched at from here to eternity. But now here she knelt in a dusty air vent, politely waiting for Harmony to jot down some message or other for her employer, and why?

Because Harmony would know where Spike was. Duh.

Without thinking it through, Dawn secured a handgrip and dropped down through the ceiling, dangling by her arms for a moment before letting go and landing with a flat-footed thump on the floor. She glanced around to take in her surroundings. Very official, she decided somewhat approvingly. But all that sunlight streaming in through the windows … _that_ had to be a liability. Angel's way of keeping the vampire component of the staff in check, perhaps. Offices. Closed doors. Potted plants. Name plates.

Name plates! _Angel, CEO_.

Dawn started over to the corner office, ignoring Harmony's high-pitched protests. She'd grasped the door handle and half-turned it before she was tackled from behind. Damn vampire speed. Flat on her back, Dawn screamed, and Harmony straddled her and clamped a hand over her mouth to block the sound.

"You're going to get me in trouble!" Harmony stage-whispered angrily. "The bossman is in a mood today, and the last thing I need is for someone to go charging in there without an appointment."

"M mmmt MMMM mm mmmmmt!"

Harmony's brow furrowed. "Huh?" Then, lightbulb. She removed her hand cautiously from Dawn's mouth.

Clenching her teeth, Dawn repeated, "I don't NEED an appointment!"

"You don't understand, he's been a real grouch lately, even worse than usual, if you can imagine that, and _no one_ gets in without an appointment. If you'd like to make one, we can probably squeeze you in for early next week."

Dawn stared at her for a long moment in amazement, then drew in breath and gave it all she had.

**_"ANGEL!!!"_**

As Harmony bestowed on her a look of shocked betrayal, the door to the corner office opened with a bang and an inward whoosh of air.

"Harmony!" he barked. "I _told_ you I wanted—"

"I'm sorry, boss, I tried to stop her!" Harmony babbled sycophantically. "I'll call security and get them to—"

"Dawn?"

Dawn shifted under Harmony's weight so that she could see upside-down Angel towering over them, the scowl on his face fading to a softer frown as recognition dawned.

"Hi," she said, managing a thin smile of greeting. "I need to see Spike."

"Get off," he instructed Harmony, who scrambled to her feet, still glaring sullenly at Dawn. Angel reached down and pulled Dawn gently up by the arm. "You okay?" he asked.

"She's fine," Harmony pouted. "I only jumped her to keep you from being bothered. Do you still want me to call security?" she added hopefully.

Angel and Dawn spared her amusingly identical withering looks, and she rolled her eyes and retreated to her desk in a huff.

"Come in," Angel said, holding his office door open. Dawn walked beneath his arm and entered the spacious, brightly lit room. He shut the door behind them with a solid click that made Dawn marginally uncomfortable.

"Pretty cool," she said conversationally, then glanced pointedly at the wall of windows and the sunny cityscape beyond. "Why aren't you on fire?"

Ignoring the question, Angel took a seat in his cushy leather chair behind the shiny I'm-So-Important desk and nodded for Dawn to take the seat across from him. She did, though she found the arrangement a tad formal for her purposes. He leaned forward and folded his hands self-consciously on top of the leather ink blotter, meeting her straightforward gaze with reluctant determination.

"Spike isn't here," he lied.

"You're lying," she returned instantly.

His lips pursed, and she wondered if she was the first person to actually challenge him since he'd assumed this position of power.

"No, I'm not," he said evenly.

"You're going to tell me that he's dead, and I know he's not, so let's save each other some time. Where is he?"

"Dawn."

"Angel. I need to see him. I'll find him with or without your help, but it'd be much easier with."

"Dawnie, I—"

"I'm not leaving here without seeing him. _Please._"

Angel sighed, and it struck Dawn that it's pretty impressive when you can make a creature that doesn't require respiration to live sigh simply by being what Giles would call tiresome.

"You're as stubborn as your sister."

"More."

"The truth is, Dawn, he … Spike asked me not to tell anyone where he is."

She shook her head. "Well he didn't mean _me._ He didn't mean Buffy."

The frown lines etched into Angel's forehead deepened, and he finally broke eye contact. "As a matter of fact, he specified."

"Specified _what_?" Dawn pressed, genuinely confused.

Another eyeroll. This whole conversation was making him squirm. Weird.

"He specified that he doesn't want to see anyone from Sunnydale." He cleared his throat. "Especially anyone with the last name Summers."

xXxXx

Harmony slammed the phone down with more force than usual, still grumbling under her breath about overbearing bosses and bratty little intruders and thankless jobs that sucked all the joy out of unlife. When he sauntered up with his trademark smirk that always spelled trouble and _still,_ dammit, made her want to lock herself in a supply closet with him for a few well spent minutes of hotness, she shot him a glare that only broadened the smirk into a leer.

"Monday blues, pet?" he asked teasingly. "Coulda done somethin' about that, not so long ago."

"Shut up, Spike. I'm so not in the mood for you."

He grinned, holding his hands up in surrender. "Mind if I ask what's got you all fired up? If it's Angel, I'll be glad to take care of that problem for you."

"Oh, please. Angel could kick your ghost ass." She glanced up for the satisfaction of seeing the flicker of real annoyance in his eyes. "Besides. He's only part of the problem. The other one is the stupid Slayer's stupid little sister."

His head jerked up and the grin vanished. "Come again?"

"Dawn. Slayer Junior. Sister Summers. Whatever. She comes busting in here through the freakin' air vent and goes charging Angel's office and it's _me_ who gets the—"

"Dawn's here?"

Harmony shrugged impatiently. "Yeah. So what?"

"Where? Where's she now?" Spike gazed fixedly at the closed door of Angel's office.

"She's in with him. I tried to get her to make an appointment, but _oh, no,_ little miss ex-girlfriend's sister is too good for that. But accidentally let one desperate Chaos demon in to see him without an appointment, you'd think I made his coffee with holy water. _Hey!_" Harmony jerked away reflexively as Spike's face, all intense blue eyes and clenched teeth and fierce power, suddenly appeared just inches from her own.

"You didn't see me," he hissed. "You get it? I wasn't here."

"Fine!" she said huffily. "So you and Angel _are_ from the same bloodline. Neither one of you has a rage gauge."

He vanished in a swish of black leather. Harmony stared after him, mildly perplexed. Then she shook her head and began filing her fingernails.

xXxXx

**To be continued…**


	4. Chapter 4

She dreamed of his hands. Large, proportionally, to his taut, slender frame, and rock-solid. Brutal. Powerful. Hands that in their time had wrought pain, evil, ugly death … but which whispered feather-soft against her hot skin, skillfully coaxing her into acceptance, then desire, then need, in the dark early hours she permitted him (with sunlight's escape never far away). Strong, gentle hands pressing between her thighs until they surrendered and parted of their own accord, fingers tracing minute patterns on tender flesh, higher and higher, teasing and promising relentlessly until she grabbed for them and urged them further.

His hands knew every inch of her.

Sometimes, after, she would twine her own fingers, small and white and delicate—deceptive—through his and study the picture they made, all tangled together that way. Good and evil. Light and dark. Saint and sinner. It seemed that there was once a time when she'd been sure which words were hers, and which his.

She'd been so self-righteous then, so bound to her convictions and her black-and-white perspective of the world, her place in it, his lack of one. By the time she began to understand, began to see the gray and accept its existence, it was too late to convince him that things had changed. And then it ended in a burst of light amid crumbling walls.

_No you don't. But thanks for saying it._

Buffy woke with a start and a sharp little gasp. Disoriented, she scanned her cramped surroundings, taking in the seatback in front of her, the narrow aisle, the neat row of dark windows, the lady next to her who clutched a dog-eared romance novel in one hand and a clear plastic cocktail cup in the other …

"He's alive," Buffy muttered, needing to hear the words before she could re-believe them after the fitful dream-collage of memories, and the woman afforded her a blandly inquisitive glance before returning her attention to her book.

Buffy tried to shake off the dream. No time for guilt-inducing naughty thoughts now. She'd be there soon. Evil Incorporated. She would see Angel, her first vampire lover, and she would see Spike, her last. With Angel there would be the requisite loaded conversation with its subtle shades of teenage angst, regret, nostalgia … something that kind of resembled love, or that she equated with it.

With Spike … with Spike there was just no telling. There had to be a reason he'd kept this from them. She'd replayed their last contact over and over in her mind since the news had fallen like a sledgehammer over what was becoming something of a normal life on the Buffy scale of bizarro. That scene with its apocalyptic weight. Maybe it should weigh less now, knowing that his blaze of glory hadn't been the end of him after all. Maybe it should mean less. It didn't.

Maybe Dawnie had found him by now, delivered her own brand of Summers retribution, extracted something that might translate to a Spike-ish version of apology. If so maybe Buffy could just show up, face him … throw herself into his arms. Maybe she could forego the "How could you"s and the "Why didn't you"s and the "Were you ever"s and just start making up for things.

There was a lot to make up for. Years.

She settled back into her seat and watched the tiny specks of city lights far, far below.

xXxXx

They'd reached a stalemate of sorts, but Dawn had a gut feeling he was going to cave first. Superpowers she might lack, but when it came to a battle of wills, Dawn Summers was the reigning champ.

"Dawn, I'm going to say this one more time. I have a meeting with a group of Lyvrak demons in fifteen minutes. Lyvrak demons, in case you don't know, are not known for their pleasant nature. You need to be somewhere that's not here. Now, I'll have someone take you upstairs to my apartment; you can relax, watch TV, take a nap, whatever, until I'm done here. Then we'll discuss what to do about getting you back to Buffy."

Dawn frowned dubiously. "You have a TV?"

He clenched his teeth. "It came with the place."

"Oh. Cable?"

"Yes, cable."

"Do you have any real food up there? You know, chips, cookies, Velveeta, anything that doesn't have … plasma?"

"Fred can take you up and get you settled; she'll bring some food, whatever you want. Do we have a deal?"

"Fred? Fred's a she?"

"Yes, Fred is a—Dawn. Let's stay on topic here. Upstairs, right? You'll stay there until I come for you?"

"Okay, but I have a better idea. How about I stay _right here_ until you tell me where I can find Spike?"

Her blue eyes locked on his, and she felt a thrill go through her at the knowledge that she was rapidly wearing down a vampire, once one of the most powerful of his kind, through sheer stubbornness. It was no mean feat, even for her.

He pressed a hand to his temple and closed his eyes briefly in a gesture that was very Giles, and she bit back the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth. Victory was sweet.

Harmony's disembodied voice cut through the loaded silence. "Boss, the Lyvraks are here. Want me to send them in?"

Angel glared at Dawn for a few long moments. "All right. Tell them I'll be with them in five minutes," he said at last. Then, glaring even harder, he added, "First, find Spike and tell him I need to see him. Right away. In my apartment."

There was a long pause during which Harmony tried to grasp the logistics. Finally she said with an almost audible shrug of her shoulders, "Sure thing, boss."

Dawn beamed at Angel, who glowered back. "I'll take you up."


	5. Chapter 5

Secured in Angel's penthouse apartment, slurping down a Coke and munching on a sandwich that Fred (whom, it turned out, was indeed a she) had brought up, Dawn found that she wasn't nearly as nervous as she might have expected. Antsy, perhaps, excited, totally—but not nervous. She'd never known fear of any sort in his company, even after … even in the days after it all went so wrong between them. Sure, she talked a good game in the name of punishing him, and he in the confines of his guilt and shame had failed to see through her on the matter. Had, in fact, welcomed her verbal blows, much as they bruised. _"You can't leave me alone with him, not after what he did." … "I'll never trust you again, you know. Surely you don't expect me to." … "Don't touch me! I'm fine. I don't want you near me."_ Words crafted and hurled with the express intent of causing pain, making sure he didn't forget that it _wasn't_ just Buffy that night … or in the long weeks of wondering that followed.

So there was no fear, but there was anticipation aplenty, as evidenced by her restless foot's furious and involuntary tapping on the floor, and _God_, how long had she been waiting? She hadn't thought to check the time when Angel had scowlingly deposited her on the couch, tossed her the TV remote, and left for his pressing demon round-table. She frowned. Surely that was at least half a _Jerry Springer_ and one _Passions_ ago. What was keeping Spike?

Then again, it wasn't at all like Spike to come running when Angel beckoned, was it? Of course not, and no way did he fall into line after-_after_ death. He would come on his own terms, in his own time, and maybe toss in an extra half-hour or so just for good measure. Because it was fun to piss Angel off. Dawn had gotten a taste of that herself, quite recently, and thought of how proud Spike would be of her performance downstairs. "You see, Bit, the trick is to make that nasty vein pop out his forehead; that's when you know you've really got him by the balls." Cajoling a resentful Dawn into a smile on one of those long, dreaded car trips from Sunnydale to L.A., That Summer.

Now, her sandwich just crumbs on the plate in front of her and only a couple of swigs of Coke left in the can, she waited. Her foot tapped relentlessly on the floor.

***

Finding her "borrowed" bag abandoned just inside the main entrance of Evil Incorporated did nothing to inspire a warm, fuzzy, Dawn's-okay feeling in Buffy. The two demons posted on either side of the security gate eyed her curiously when she bent to retrieve the bag, and she glared as she approached them.

"Can we help you, miss?" one of them asked cordially, and Buffy was more than a little taken aback by the businesslike courtesy of these creatures she was bound by calling to destroy.

"Where is my sister?" she demanded.

"_Who_ is your sister?" the first demon asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

She shook the travel bag pointedly. "She came in with this, and she knows I would kill her if she just dropped it here for no reason. You must have seen her. Pretty girl, tall, long brown hair … snotty attitude?"

Recognition dawned. "Oh, that was … she's been detained."

_"Detained?"_

"Detained. As a potential security threat."

Buffy sighed. "Take me to her."

"I'm afraid we can't do that, miss." The other, less pleasant-looking demon stood up, towering over Buffy. "We're under orders."

"I don't have time for this," Buffy said, sweeping the latter demon's legs out from under him with a well-aimed kick. He looked up at her from the floor, red eyes wide with surprise. "Take me to her, or it's gonna get ugly."

***

Spike wasn't a bit fooled by Angel's summons. When was the last time the great pouf had wanted him for anything didn't involve a rough and tumble spot of demon violence (requests that Spike always granted but only after a fitting show of gleeful smugness, a few pointed quips that left his grandsire fuming)? Now he was meant to believe Angel was inviting him up to his soulier-than-thou stomping grounds for what, a cup of tea? No, this time he knew bloody well what was what. Ponce thought he'd be tricked into walking straight in, did he? Caught unawares? Not bloody likely; the hallway outside Angel's digs positively reeked of Dawn Summers. Not that it was an unpleasant scent, mind, sort of minty like toothpaste and flowery from that girly shampoo she used. And there was something else, something that reminded him of a time when he was needed, admired, loved … when he was a hero—if only to one little girl in all the world.

He'd eventually get round to dusting Angel for revealing his whereabouts … but that had to wait till after. After opening the door, going in, facing her. After this unsavory business of tossing the kid out on her can't-leave-well-enough-alone ass.

Or at the very least calling a cab to take her to the airport.

He rested his forehead against the smooth cool wood of the door, fingertips pressed lightly on the knob. Could hear faint, tinny laughter coming from the telly, some mindless sitcom like those she always used to make him watch (even though she _knew_ he preferred Joey-Pacey-type drama to that rubbish). _"I know it's stupid, but it's good for us," she'd lecture, shoving relentlessly at him until he rolled his eyes and scooted over so she could flop down on her accustomed end of the couch. "It's good to hear someone laughing, since no one around here does it anymore."_

In a burst of determination he tightened his jaw and thrust the door open. It banged against the wall, and Dawn shot up so fast from the couch that her foot knocked a crumb-littered plate off Angel's coffee table. It shattered on the tile.

Staring dumbstruck at one another across the living room, neither of them blinked.


End file.
